Nostrum (The Scourge, Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

kicks. She sends a plaguer twirling to the lush grass with a kick and sees an opening. She bolts forward again.
    The old woman comes with us for a few paces, until I can free my sword from her skull. And when I look back at the rest of the plaguers, I see what is bringing them to the ground. And I consider leaping off of Abigail and letting the afflicted take me.

Chapter 4
    Arrows. The plaguers are riddled with arrows.
    I look ahead and spot the archers behind a low hedge. They are arranged in a row a hundred yards from the stable, not far from the stone church I noticed earlier. I count ten of them.
    They angle their longbows upward, draw back the strings, and let loose the arrows. I can just see the shafts in the darkening sky, impossibly thin geese flying in a chaotic formation. But these geese have teeth. Some of the arrows bite only dirt, sinking almost to the feathers in the soft grass. But most bite deep into afflicted flesh. The plaguers shriek and fall to their knees or topple backward. Most rise again and continue their clumsy pursuit.
    I think of Sir Gerald, the enemy I made on my journey to St. Edmund’s Bury. His men used crossbows, not longbows, but perhaps he has broadened his arsenal. Who else could it be? I have no doubts.
    I yank the rope around Abigail’s neck hard to the right, but a rope is not a halter. She shakes her head and continues toward the archers.
    The plaguers behind are undeterred by the ceaseless rain of arrows. They plod on fearlessly. Some have three of four arrows jutting from their bodies. And still they come.
    The archers fire volley after volley. If they are Sir Gerald’s men, then I should let the plaguers have me; it would be a much more pleasant death.
    I think about leaping to the ground and running away from both the archers and the plaguers, but I know I cannot. My ankle would not allow me to escape either of them. Abigail trots toward the longbowmen. I breathe a quick prayer and put my life in the hands of Mary, Giles, and God.
    One of the three responds. Abigail becomes aware of the archers, and she does not like them any more than I do. She wheels and pounds away from them toward the field of rotting rye. A thickset man among the archers points toward me. He shouts something. I think they intend to pursue. But I see no horses. Abigail may not be a racer, but a cow can outrun a man when she makes up her mind to.
    But she cannot outrun arrows. Several of the archers turn their bows on us and the arrows plunge silently into the earth around us.
    “Run, girl! Run!”
    But Abigail needs no encouragement. It may have taken her time to realize her danger, but now that she knows, there is no stopping her. We plunge into the withered rye, where the archers cannot see us. I smell fertile earth and rotting crops. An arrow clanks against the spaulder upon my shoulder, striking sparks and deflecting into the field. I duck low against the cow’s neck and concentrate on staying upon her. She stumbles on the ploughed ridges but forges onward. Arrow hiss into the dry stalks until we clear the field and move beyond the archers’ range.
    And then we are free.
    I rub Abigail’s ears and smile. “There’s a girl,” I say. “I’m sorry I spoke ill of you.”
    She slows to a walk and peers behind us, then lowers her head and eats. I dismount and let her feast for a time. She has earned it. Abigail and my holy triumvirate have kept me alive. I say a brief prayer of thanks and allow myself another smile.
    My coat of arms is a cross, engrailed, crested with a unicorn upon a helmet. The cross symbolizes that we Dallingridges are a God-fearing people of England under Saint George. The helmet, because we have always been warriors and knights. And the unicorn, because I like unicorns. Many people ask me about the unicorn. Must there be meaning to everything?
    Perhaps I should add Mary and Giles to my coat of arms. Elizabeth would be pleased if I added Saint Giles. I can see her smile in my mind.